


The Wedding

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: Strike and Claire [2]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, Nick and Ilsa’s wedding, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:33:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22245646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Spring 2001.Another Strike and Claire piece, written in my mad pre-Christmas proliferation. Might warm us up a little in January 🔥🔥
Relationships: Cormoran Strike/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Strike and Claire [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1512974
Comments: 16
Kudos: 22





	The Wedding

Strike sat on the front pew of the church in the village he’d grown up in, trying not to fidget. He’d not been here often, his mother not having been much of a one for God, but he remembered it from the odd school outing at Christmas. It had always been cold and draughty. Now it was warm, spring light steaming through the stained glass windows, colouring the dust motes that danced and swirled in the air stirred by the breeze from the open door far behind them.

He sighed a little and resisted the urge to pull at his collar. His dress shirt was too tight at the neck, as were most shirts. The waistcoat, done up neatly beneath his jacket, was also too tight now he was sitting down. He glanced sideways at Nick, sat next to him apparently serenely calmly but with an air of tension that his closest friend could see. “You okay?” he murmured.

Nick shifted a little. “She’s late,” he hissed, staring straight ahead at the altar, watching as the vicar pottered about, filling time and keeping an eye on the door.

Strike glanced surreptitiously at his watch. It wouldn’t do for the gathered well-wishers behind them to see him checking. “Only five minutes.”

Another minute crawled by. Strike filled it wondering at what point it would be considered acceptable to remove the annoying tie/cravat hybrid around his neck. Probably not until after the speeches, sadly.

“Have you got the rings?”

Strike grinned. “For the hundredth time, yes. They’re in my pocket.”

Nick sighed a little.

“They’ll just be faffing, you know what her mum’s like,” Strike said reassuringly.

Nick nodded tightly. Dust motes swirled, and the scent of freesias hung in the air.

“But what if she’s having doubts?”

“She’s not.”

Nick glanced at him sideways. “How would you know?”

“I saw her earlier. She’s just as sure as you are. Never seen two people so determined to be married to each other.”

Nick chuckled and relaxed a little. “Yeah.”

“And anyway—” Strike broke off as the vicar straightened up suddenly. Footsteps clicked on the stone floor in the entryway and then went muted as they reached the carpeted aisle. In a few moments, Ilsa’s mother was slipping into her place at the end of the front pew across the aisle from them, next to Tom, Ilsa’s brother. She nodded to the vicar, who in turn gave a signal to the organist.

The music began, and the congregation stood. Nick drew a long, shaky breath, and Strike nudged him. “Not too late.”

“Stop it.”

“You can still back out.”

“Shut up.”

Grinning, Strike nudged him again and Nick gave him a mock glare. “Behave yourself.”

Strike shot him a smile that was filled with unexpected warmth, and Nick grinned back, and then they turned to watch Ilsa and her dad walk up the aisle.

Strike smiled softly. Ilsa looked radiant, her simple white dress fitted and falling to the floor, her hair in soft, loose curls around her shoulders and garnished with little white flowers. Her makeup was understated with a hint of smoky eyes. She looked stunning, even to someone who had never looked at her that way.

But what really caught his eye was the tall, elegant figure of her best friend Claire behind her.She wore a similar dress in a dark royal blue, with her hair pinned up and a posy of flowers in her hands. The dress skimmed her figure and touched the floor, swirling around her ankles as she made her way up the aisle behind her friend, keeping an eye on Ilsa’s short train.

Strike had dated Claire briefly the previous year, and had enjoyed her company. They’d had several weeks together before he’d moved away to Portsmouth to begin his next round of training. He was still stationed there, much to the chagrin of his long-term on-and-off girlfriend Charlotte. His implacable refusal to give up the training and move back to London to live with her had caused their latest round of arguments and was the reason he was here solo at his best friends’ wedding rather than with her. He had no doubt she’d be back, but in the meantime he was free to pursue other options. Options his libido was reminding him suddenly how much he had enjoyed in the past.

Claire caught his eye as they drew level and Nick stepped out into the aisle to Ilsa, his gaze fixed on her. Ilsa looked back up at him, smiling mistily.

Claire raked her eyes across Strike, taking in the neatly cut hair, the piercing dark eyes, the close-shaved jaw already showing a hint of shadow, the three-piece suit and tie, and gave him an outrageous wink. A cheeky grin pulled at Strike’s mouth, and he winked back, then hurriedly dragged his attention back to the job at hand. Claire took Ilsa’s bouquet and went to sit on the other front pew next to Ilsa’s parents.

Strike did his best to concentrate on the wedding, but he was aware of Claire’s eyes on him a lot of the time. Every time he glanced over, she was looking at him with a hint of a cheeky smile that made the church seem stuffy and hot suddenly. He shifted restlessly and longed again to loosen his collar.

He almost missed his cue to hand over the rings, and had to endure a slight eye roll from Nick and a few muted sniggers from behind him as he frantically dug the little box out of his pocket and passed it across.

Finally he forced his attention back to the reason they were all here, watching with a lump in his throat as his childhood friend and his best mate in London made their vows to one another, Ilsa’s voice soft and tremulous, Nick’s clear and sure. On the other side of Strike, Nick’s mum was sniffing and dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

Suddenly it was all over, the bride and groom were kissing, and cheering broke out across the church. The final hymn began, and the new Mr and Mrs Herbert led the way down the aisle. Nick’s dad stepped forward to escort Ilsa’s mum, Ilsa’s dad offered his arm to Nick’s mum, and Strike found himself next to Claire. She grinned and slid her arm into his. “Fancy seeing you here,” she murmured.

He grinned back and kissed her cheek, lingering just a little. “You look amazing.”

“So do you. Quite...edible.” She winked up at him as they set off up the aisle together. “No girlfriend?”

“Sadly not. That’s back off for now.”

“That’s a shame.” But she grinned broadly up at him, and Strike laughed. “Isn’t it?”

They were swept out into the sunshine to where Nick and Ilsa were surrounded by well-wishers, and made their way over. Ilsa, bubbling over with happiness, threw her arms around him, and he squeezed her hard, lifting her off her feet. “Congratulations, Mrs Herbert,” he murmured warmly in her ear. “You look stunning.”

She grinned up at him, tears in her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Oh, Corm, I’m so happy.”

He wrinkled his nose at her fondly and squeezed her hand. “You’re not the only one,” he said, turning to give a beaming Nick a huge hug. “Congrats, mate,” he added. “Couldn’t be happier for you.”

Nick grinned back, looking almost bemused. “I can’t quite believe it,” he replied. “We really did it.”

Strike laughed. “You really did,” he said. “Married man now.”

Claire was hugging Ilsa, and moved across to kiss Nick on the cheek. “Well done, Mr and Mrs,” she said. “Party time?”

“Er, photos first, I think,” Ilsa replied. “A few here, then we’ll go on up to the hotel for more.”

The next hour passed in a blur. Strike stood where he was told, smiled when he was told, faced barrages of cameras. Nick and Ilsa were lost in one another, whispering and smiling at each other and having to be reminded to pose for photographs. Claire arranged Ilsa’s dress and held or passed her her flowers, posed next to her. Every time he caught her eye, Strike felt an almost physical jolt of electricity arc between them. He found himself fervently hoping the night would end with her coming back to his room at the hotel, a possibility that was looking increasingly likely.

At last they all separated and made their way to various cars for the journey to the hotel. Strike had lost sight of Claire in the melee, and found himself wedged into the back of his Uncle Ted’s ancient Volvo. At least it was preferable to being shoved in the back of Greg and Lucy’s car next to his baby nephew. He supposed he was going to have to put on a display of uncle-worthy interest in the baby at some point. Lucy would probably expect him to hold it again, an experience either Strike nor the baby enjoyed. Hopefully he could manage to be too busy on best man duties for most of the day.

...

Strike took advantage of the general milling around at the hotel as people swarmed to offer Ilsa and Nick their congratulations to sneak off to one side for a cigarette. He ambled, drawing gratefully on his first nicotine fix for a couple of hours, down the side of the hotel, admiring the gardens and wondering how long the latest round of photographs would take. He didn’t mind, exactly, but weddings were full of tedious traditions and he couldn’t duck them in this one, being rather close to centre stage as best man. He was feeling vaguely guilty for taking these few minutes out.

His thoughts drifted to Claire. She was looking very attractive in the shimmering blue dress. Memories of their time together a year ago wandered through his mind, and he smiled to himself at the thought that an encore did indeed seem to be on the cards. He wondered how many hours it would be before he’d be able to take up the promise that was being offered him in the cheeky flash of her clear blue gaze.

“What are you grinning about?”

Strike jumped slightly. He hadn’t seen her approach. Claire smiled slyly at him as she drew nearer, her eyes roving across him again.

“Just thinking how happy the Herberts look,” he lied smoothly, and her gaze softened.

“They do, don’t they? Ilsa’s been so excited for today.”

She stepped up to him, glancing back towards the front of the hotel. A few people could be seen, off to the edge of the group that spread across the front patio and driveway. They weren’t exactly private, standing chatting here.

Strike grinned down at her, his dark eyes watching hers, waiting for a cue. She was tantalisingly close, her full breasts beneath the high neckline only inches from his broad chest.

Claire cast her eyes back to the few well-wishers they could see, whose attention was focused on the happy couple out of sight, and took a chance. A half-step closed the gap and she pressed her lips to his.

Strike dropped his cigarette behind him and slid his arms around her, pulling her into a deeper kiss at once. Heat jumped between them as his tongue plundered her mouth, and for several seconds longer than Claire had intended, they kissed one another fiercely.

Finally she pulled free and stepped back, panting, grinning up at him. “I’ll see you later.” And with a cheeky wink she turned and began to hurry back up the path to her bridesmaid duties.

Strike chuckled and pulled his cigarettes from his pocket, sliding another from the packet. The heat in their brief kiss combined with the sheer cut of his suit trousers meant that waiting a couple of minutes before rejoining polite society was advisable.

It looked as though a very pleasant night was on the cards. He just had to get through an entire wedding reception first.

...

The assembled guests, well-fed and in many cases somewhat tipsy, toasted the happy couple as Ilsa’s dad sat back down. A few of the women dabbed at their eyes, and Ilsa smiled mistily at her father, who smiled back, glad his speech was over and he could relax into his daughter’s wedding.

Strike clambered to his feet, and a couple of early hecklers shouted. He grinned around, and waited for a few moments to let the room settle again.

“My first thought when Nick asked me to be his best man was how brave he was being,” Strike began, winking at Ilsa, who pulled a face at him.

“But not because he was getting married. And not even because he was marrying Ilsa,” he went on, and there were shouts of laughter from a few members of the assembled crowd. “Watch it, Oggy!” Nick called cheerfully as Ilsa giggled.

“No, the brave move was asking me to be best man.” Strike paused for effect and gave his audience an outrageous wink. “You see, I know too much.”

Laughter and cheers erupted, and their more rowdy friends banged on tables. Nick shook his head fondly, wondering what on earth was coming. Strike had refused to divulge so much as a hint as to the contents of his speech.

Strike waited for the hubbub to die down.

“But the thing is,” he continued, grinning around, “I’m in the uniquely interesting position of knowing too much about both of them.” The room erupted into laughter again.

“However, sadly it’s not the duty of the best man to embarrass the bride,” he said, giving Ilsa a fond wink. “So I shall just say, Ilsa, your secrets are safe with me.” He smiled at her. “You look beautiful, and Nick is a very lucky guy, as I’m pretty sure he knows.” He raised his glass to her, and Ilsa blushed and smiled up at him. “To the beautiful bride,” Strike called, and the cry was echoed as everyone raised their glasses and took a sip.

“Right.” Strike put his glass down and grinned wickedly around. He pulled an exaggeratedly long piece of paper from his pocket, causing another ripple of mirth around the room. “It is my job, however, to tell you all some very tall tales about the groom. Nick, your secrets are very much _not_ safe with me. Where to begin?” And he launched into his prepared speech. Public speaking wasn’t his forte, but he wasn’t afraid of it, and he had a few notes scribbled on the fake list he had produced.

...

“Good speech,” Claire murmured as Strike pulled her into his arms on the dance floor. Nick had shot him a pleading look begging him to join in and end the excruciating first-dance feeling of having the entire room watching him whilst Ilsa managed to bury her shyness in his chest, and Strike had cheerfully led the way, offering Claire his hand and encouraging Nick and Ilsa’s parents to follow suit. The floor filled rapidly after that.

“Thanks.” He smiled down at her, his hand resting decorously in the small of her back, trying not to imagine sliding down to pull her backside against him. They’d all had quite a bit of wine and champagne by now, plus Strike had had a post-speech steadying draught from his hip flask of whisky that he’d brought along mostly as a joke but also to ply a nervous Nick with a little of. Boundaries were eroding now that duty was largely done and they could relax into their evening. He was sure Claire didn’t need to press her breasts against his waistcoat front quite so firmly. Not that he was complaining.

“Was it all true?” She searched his face, but Strike just winked.

“Only the groom and I will ever know!” he teased, and she giggled. Her left hand was cool in his, and her right rested at the back of his neck, mostly resting chastely against his collar but occasionally toying with a curl at his nape in a way he found maddeningly distracting. The room was warm now, filled with bodies heated by a surfeit of good food, alcohol and general conviviality, and this close to her he could smell a musky undertone to her perfume that was a siren call to his libido.

She pressed closer, and he knew she was fully aware of the effect she was having. Her gaze was heated, searing into him. “You busy later?”

He curled a lazy grin down at her, forcing his hand to stop its slow slide lower down her back, his fingers resting at the top of her arse. “Much later, no. How long do we have to perform our best man and bridesmaid’s duties?”

Claire pulled a rueful face. “I think I’m here for the evening,” she said. “Ilsa’s lipstick and tissues are in my bag, and if she gets pissed she might need help with her train in the loo.”

Strike snorted. “That’s going above and beyond, isn’t it?”

“Chief among a bridesmaid’s duties, helping the bride to pee!” Claire laughed. She leaned in, pulling his head down so she could press her mouth to his ear. “I have all kinds of plans for you later, though.”

“Is that so?” He drew back a little, his dark eyes smouldering down at her, and she shivered a little against him.

“If you want to.”

His hand slid a fraction lower, pulling her closer against him. “Oh, I definitely want to.”

“May I cut in?” Suddenly Ilsa’s dad was at his elbow, and Strike grinned and stepped back, passing Claire’s hand across and turning to dance with Nick’s mum. Claire shot him a scorching look that heated him down to his toes as she was whirled away and the music switched to party tempo. It was going to be a long evening.

...

“Thought I’d find you out here.” Claire slid her arms around him from behind, and Strike grinned and allowed himself to be pulled back against her body. “Hardly a romantic location, though. What are you doing lurking round by the bins?”

Strike shuddered a little at the feel of her breasts against his back. “Avoiding the other smokers,” he murmured as she stood on tiptoe to kiss the back of his neck above his loosened shirt collar. “One of the uncles has got some pretty...off-colour views that he’s getting quite keen to share now he’s pissed.”

Claire chuckled into his ear as he turned his head, enjoying the tremors that ran through him as she bit gently at his ear lobe. “There’s always one. It’s a must at a wedding.”

Strike tossed his cigarette aside and turned in her arms, his mouth seeking hers. They kissed fiercely for a minute and then Claire wriggled free. “Best get back.”

“No, you don’t,” he growled, pulling her back to press her against him. “What gives you the right to keep sneaking up on me, turning me on and leaving again?”

She grinned up at him. He was even sexier now he’d wrestled the cloth at his neck free. A couple of shirt buttons were undone and his cravat lay loose, revealing a glimpse of that copious body hair she was looking forward to reacquainting herself with. She wriggled a little in his arms, making him see stars. “Just keeping your appetite whetted for later.”

“I assure you, it doesn’t need it,” he replied, and kissed her again, pressing her back against the wall.

A long afternoon of flirting and just enough alcohol to erode decorum combined to take things out of the realm of teasing very quickly. Claire moaned into his mouth as he kissed her, and Strike had suddenly lost all control of his body’s reactions to her. Blood rushed to his groin and he leaned in to her, pressing his erection against the junction of her thighs. Claire broke free of his mouth with a gasp at the feel of him, her pupils blown with arousal as she gazed up at him, moving impatiently against him and making him growl and thrust back at her.

“I want you,” he told her, as though she couldn’t already tell.

Claire gave him a lazy smile, rocking against him. “I know. I want you too.” She winked. “You should feel how wet my knickers are already.”

He grinned back, unperturbed, a predatory look in his eye. “Should I? Is that a challenge?”

“Well, no, obv—” Claire broke off with a gasp as he pulled swiftly at her dress, bunching it up with one hand so he could slide the other up underneath, his large fingers surprisingly deft and swift as they sought her core. He stroked softly across the scrap of silk and winked at her. “So they are.”

“Fuck—” Claire panted as he stoked and teased her, maddeningly gentle. She leaned back on the wall as he drew back a little to watch her, one large hand resting against the brickwork by her head, the other hidden beneath the folds of her dress that cascaded down either side of his wrist. His dark eyes held hers as his hand ghosted across her knickers, so close to where she suddenly desperately wanted it.

“Corm, please...” she panted, writhing against him, parting her thighs and trying to press down onto his fingers that were barely touching her.

He obliged, easing the strip of silk out of the way and sliding his fingers against her, still too gently to give her any relief. Claire whimpered as he trailed light fingertips across her entrance and up to her clit, ghosting a circle and drifting back down again. He watched her, smiling softly, knowing exactly what he was doing...and then abruptly drew away, pulling his hand back and dropping her dress to the floor.

“Corm—!” Claire broke off her anguished protest as the door next to them opened and a kitchen porter hurried out with two bin bags, almost cannoning into Strike, who had pulled his cigarettes from his pocket.

“Sorry,” the young lad muttered, stepping past, and Strike gave him a charming grin. “No worries, we’re the ones in the way,” he replied, offering the pack to Claire.

Dazed, still panting a little, her hands against the wall by her hips looking as though she were trying to hold herself upright, she shook her head. Smirking, Strike put a cigarette to his uneven lips and lit it as the porter dumped his bags in the bin and hurried back inside.

Pulling herself together a little, Claire shook her head with a soft chuckle. “Bastard,” she muttered, and Strike grinned. “You started it.”

“I’ll get you back for that later,” she told him, levering herself off the wall and tugging her dress straight, and he laughed. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

She pulled a cheeky face at him and stuck her tongue out, sending another jolt of lust through him, and then she was gone, hurrying back round to the patio and her friend’s wedding.

...

“Haven’t seen any sign yet of this revenge you promised me,” Strike said an hour later as they danced together again. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Nick and Ilsa, wrapped in one another, whispering and moving gently to the music, foreheads touching, the picture of bliss. He smiled softly.

“I’m working on it,” Claire replied, swaying with him as the music washed over them, her hands gently exploring those muscled shoulders that she couldn’t wait to see again.

“How are your knickers?” He winked at her.

She shrugged. “I have no idea.” She shot him a cheeky look. “They’re in the bin in the ladies’.”

Strike’s breathing hitched sharply, and she felt his reaction to that stir against her thigh. She grinned, delighted. “Oh, looks like I’ve found a good button to press.”

“Don’t,” he warned her, his gaze hooded. “You’ll embarrass both of us.”

“Don’t what?” Her face was a picture of innocence as she moved gently against him, fanning the flames of his reaction. “Don’t tell you they were annoying me, so I slipped them off and quietly binned them, right after I came in from outside?” Her eyes widened as she gazed up at him. “Don’t tell you I’ve been going commando ever since, including during the cake cutting when you were stood right behind me?”

“Claire,” he breathed, his voice hoarse, his cock hardening rapidly, pressed between them.

“What if I told you I was planning to follow you outside again in the hopes of a repeat performance, only this time I was going to surprise you with the no knickers?”

Strike groaned helplessly and closed his eyes, and she chuckled and pressed closer.

“Mm, dilemma,” she murmured into his ear. “Keep me close, or push me away? Doesn’t seem like either of those options is a good idea just at the moment.”

Strike shook his head with a rueful laugh. “You’re incorrigible.”

She smiled cheekily at him. “You started it.”

“Not in public!”

She grinned. “Maybe I can do something about that.” And she turned her back, her hand still in his, pulling him towards the toilets.

“Claire!” he hissed after her. She was leaving him exposed. She giggled. “Stay close, then.”

She pulled him out to the corridor that went past the toilets, on past both men’s and ladies’, and round a corner. To Strike’s surprise, it was a dead end.

“Store cupboards,” Claire told him succinctly. “But the staff do come down here occasionally for spare loo roll and towels, I’ve been watching. How risky are you feeling?”

Strike groaned again in answer and kissed her, and she tugged him close and leaned back against the wall, pulling his hips to hers so she could grind against him. His hands slid down to her backside as he kissed her fiercely, spreading his palms across her buttocks and revelling in the slide of material on skin. She’d not been lying about the knickers, and he groaned again and dragged her against him, rocking into her.

Claire wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back, pressing her breasts to his chest again. Strike’s hands slid up to her waist and across her ribcage, brushing against the undersides of her breasts in the dress, making her breathing hitch. His right hand slid higher, cupping her gently, his thumb stroking across her nipple through the material, and she whimpered. His tongue thrust into her mouth and she shivered against him.

Claire’s hands slid down from his neck in between them and fumbled for his fly. With a low growl of frustration, Strike drew back, finally breaking the kiss and capturing her hands in his. “Stop,” he murmured raggedly.

She leaned back against the wall, panting. “Stop? Really?”

He took a shuddering breath. “Well, we can’t exactly do everything we want to do right here, can we?” He glanced over his shoulder, back up the corridor. They could clearly hear the chatter and voices of people going in and out of the toilets. They’d have no warning if someone were to suddenly round the corner and happen upon them. “And I’m a bit afraid—” his gaze returned to hers and Claire shivered at the naked desire on his face “—that if we go any further we won’t stop.”

Her right hand slid from his back to his fly, sliding the zip down, her fingers slipping inside, stroking across his straining length. Strike moaned and shuddered.

“I’m willing to risk it if you are,” she murmured, reaching right in to close her hand around him. Tortuously aroused, he rocked against her as she slid her hand up and down what she could reach of his length, which wasn’t nearly enough in the fitted trousers to do any more than drive him wild.

“Fuck—” Strike muttered, forcing himself to grab her hand again and ease her away. He did his fly back up, giving her a rueful grin.

“This is a hired suit,” he said. “I can’t send it back with suspicious stains on it even if they do dry-clean them. Delicious though this is, it’ll have to wait till later when I can take the trousers off properly.”

Claire leaned back on the wall, gazing up at him with his dark eyes and dishevelled hair and heaving breathing, and grinned. “What if I don’t want to wait that long?”

Strike raised an eyebrow at her. “We could sneak away for half an hour now. My room’s not far.”

Claire hesitated, sorely tempted, but shook her head reluctantly. “I can’t leave Ilsa.” She sighed. “I guess we’ll have to behave ourselves. For now.”

...

“Christ, are you going back again?” Strike’s dark eyes pierced hers. They’d paused yet again on the stairs (chosen for speed over the lift) to kiss one another fiercely, and yet again Claire was hesitating.

“I just need to check.”

“Honestly, you’ve already been back and asked Ilsa and she said she’s fine. The evening’s pretty much over. She’s got Nick.”

“I feel guilty. Wait there.”

Strike groaned. “Well, I can’t exactly go anywhere, can I?” he demanded as she hurried back down again. He sighed and leaned back against the wall, his erection tenting the front of his trousers, desperately hoping no one else would decide to use the stairs. She threw him a cheeky grin over her shoulder as she vanished through the door that made him groan. His hand slid to the front of his fly, pressing against aching cock, seeking relief but only making himself feel worse. He sighed and concentrated on breathing slowly.

Two minutes later she came hurrying back, and paused on the half-landing below to admire his profile.

“C’mere,” Strike growled, and she grinned and trotted up the last couple of steps to where he was leaning on the wall. He pulled her into his arms for another searing kiss, and then pushed her away and grabbed her hand. “Come on, before you decide to go back down again.”

He dragged her up the final few stairs, through the door into the hallway and along to his room, fumbling in his pocket for the key card. Claire slid her arms around him from behind, her hands finding his groin, stroking across him, and Strike jerked and swore and dropped the card.

Giggling, Claire dropped to a crouch, sliding her hand down the inside of his thigh, then stood, sliding her hand back up until she was cupping him, her body behind his hiding what she was doing. Strike swore again, shuddering, and she reached around him with the other hand and swiped the card through the reader. The light flashed red and the door remained resolutely locked.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Strike growled, and Claire grinned, nuzzling against the side of his arm. “Getting impatient, soldier?”

“I’m going to fucking explode in a minute,” he rasped, as Claire deftly turned the card over in her hand and swiped it again. The light flashed green and the door clicked.

“Best do that on the other side of the door,” she said, and pushed it open and pulled him though.

Strike kicked the door shut behind them and grabbed her, pinning her to the wall, pulling her dress up, desperate to feel her. Whimpering, Claire wrestled with his button and fly, pulling his trousers open. Even as she pushed at his boxers, he was sliding his fingers against her, making her gasp and rock, thrusting her hips at him.

She pushed his clothing out of the way and his cock sprang free. A whole afternoon and evening of teasing had kept them both on the edge of arousal for hours; he was hard and engorged and she was wet and ready. Strike picked her up bodily and thrust against her, pressing her to the wall, sliding his cock across her melting core, and Claire whimpered and rocked, angling herself against him.

“Your trousers,” she gasped as he slid against her, moaning a little with need.

“Fuck ’em,” he growled back, rocking forwards. Claire tangled her fingers into his hair and pulled his head to hers to kiss him as he positioned himself against her. She gasped against his mouth, canting her hips to give him access, desperate for him.

“Fuck— condom—” Strike muttered.

Claire fisted her hands in his hair, tugging. “No need— pill—” she gasped back, and with a groan of relief he thrust into her.

Claire curled over him, her cheek at his temple, gasping her pleasure as he withdrew and thrust again, his hands under her backside holding her weight easily as he moved against her. Her legs locked around his waist and her hands clung to his shoulders, biting into him through his jacket. She’d been so aroused for so long today, she couldn’t withstand the delight storming through her. Within a minute she was dissolving around him, grunting fiercely into his ear, her muscles squeezing him so hard that Strike lost all control and came with a low, hoarse cry of release, slamming his hips to hers as the pleasure exploded through him.

Gradually he slowed, rocking a little against her, enjoying the way she shuddered and whimpered in his arms, until finally they both stilled, clinging to one another.

Strike eased free, and Claire chuckled softly as he lowered her to the floor. “So, that was fast,” she murmured as her dress dropped back into place.

Strike grinned, unashamed, as he pulled his trousers back up. “What did you expect, after the way you’ve turned me on all day?”

She laughed. “Oh, I wasn’t complaining. I was equally fast, in case you didn’t notice.”

“I did notice,” he replied, failing to hide a smug look. Claire laughed again and shook her head at him.

“Right, well,” she said. “I’m not in the least bit done, so how about I have a shower while you investigate the mini bar?”

“How about I join you in the shower and then we both investigate the mini bar?”

“That’s an even better plan.”

Strike grinned. “In that case, do come more than three feet into my room,” he joked, extending a welcoming arm, and she laughed and followed him towards the bathroom door.


End file.
